Burnt Offerings
by Firazh
Summary: After the wards fail at Privet Drive, Harry Potter must spend the summer under Snape's protection. Who is not happy about getting stuck with the Brat-who-lived. But all is not as it seems with Harry, and Snape finds out more than he had expected... AU: Short story. Mentioned abuse and character death.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All characters and recognizable story elements belong to J. K. Rowling.

AN: I woke up today with this half-formed in my mind. Sometimes my brain delights in throwing these little sob stories at me. Thank you very much, brain. Anyway, I'm sure you have read the theme plenty of times, this is just my take on it.

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oOoOoOoOo

Damn the old codger. He had sounded so reasonable.

"It is just for a couple of weeks, until we can find somewhere else to put him."

Him. The brat. The ungrateful, arrogant, attention-seeking, rule-breaking spawn of James Potter. And he was saddled with the Brat-who-lived for the foreseeable future. He was glumly convinced that 'a couple of weeks' would somehow become 'for the rest of the summer'.

And all because the wards on Privet Drive had mysteriously failed. Albus was still trying to find out how that could possibly have happened. But it meant that the brat had to be moved, and moved fast, and unfortunately Severus' own wards were the best after Hogwarts'. And he could not go to Grimmauld Place, oh no.

The brat was surely depressive, after the death of his godmutt. He needed watching, so nothing happened to him, and the dark and gloomy home of the Blacks would not be good for him, oh no. And so he got dumped on Severus instead. He shot the brat a venomous look. There would be rules, oh yes. And the brat would learn the consequences of breaking them, too.

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oOoOoOoOo

Harry meanwhile was terrified. He could have told the headmaster why the wards had fallen, if he had been asked. They were supposedly powered by the love of his relatives. Love. He almost snorted. When had they ever felt any _love_ for him? Sure, Aunt Petunia had loved having her own house-elf. And Uncle Vernon had probably loved having his own personal punching bag. He wasn't sure what Dudley might have loved about his presence, unless it was having a ready-made victim for bullying on the premises.

None of that had ever stopped the wards from working. Not until this summer. Because they had blamed him for the Dementor attack on Dudley last summer. Never mind that he had actually been the one to _save_ his cousin, without Harry's presence it would never have happened. And so it was his fault. Everything was his fault. The chores had been a mountain this year. So had the beatings been, when he failed to accomplish the impossible goals they set him. He was used to the lack of food and being locked in, in any case. But the wards had survived even that.

But what had finally brought them down, when all the miss-treatment had failed to do so, was …

No. He could not think of it. Would not. If he did, he would start crying. Would break down totally. Or maybe he would go berserk. He couldn't do that, either. So that memory went right into the back of his mind.

Because he had gone from the frying pan into the fire. No. Thinking about fire was bad, too.

But he was still, in his opinion, now stuck in a situation almost worse than he had been in before. It was hard to imagine that was possible. Yet he was now at the mercy of the one teacher who hated him with a passion. Who delighted in insulting and disparaging him even at school. And who knew what the man would be capable of here, where Harry was not a student. Because students were protected from their teachers by the _rules_. Rules that said there could be no physical violence, at least. Rules that forbid the hexing of students.

But here he was not a student. The man was not his teacher. He, Harry, was now merely a burden, forced onto the other. Dumbledore had only told him that he was now in the 'care' of Snape for the meanwhile, and that he should be polite and try his best not to upset the man, because Snape had been reluctant to take him in. Reluctant. Harry stared down hard at his scuffed trainers. He could imagine what these words really meant.

So … in order to somehow survive the rest of the summer, he would have to remain in Dursley mode. Now harder than ever. Say: 'Yes, sir' and 'No, sir' and 'May I, sir'. Don't look him in the eye. Do whatever you are told, without complaining. Don't react when you get called names or worse. Don't react when the man starts in on your father and godfather. _That_ would be the hardest. He caught himself trembling. Don't do that either. Show no weakness. Show nothing at all. Be as blank as you can. This was not school, where you can let your temper show. Where you are free to react to the insults. No, this was summer, when you locked it all down.

Dumbledore was trying to talk to him. Damnation, he had spaced out, while the other two had spoken about him as if he was not there. And so he had not noticed when the headmaster started to talk to him. But he was just repeating what he had said earlier, and that he had to leave.

"Good bye, Professor," he said softy, not looking Dumbledore in the eye.

"Good bye, Harry. I hope you have a good summer here," the old man said gravely.

Are you trying to joke, sir?

"Just remember, please, that Professor Snape is doing this out of kindness and behave, will you?"

Kindness, my foot. But sure, I will behave. I have no wish to be beaten, or become potion's ingredients.

Eyes on the floor. "Yes, sir. I will do my best."

Harry got a final pat on the shoulder, and then the old man was gone.

Which meant he was now alone with the displeased potions master. Harry waited for the sword to fall.

"So. I am stuck with _you_," Snape said, and his voice was dripping venom. "For the time being."

"But as you are here, in my home, there will be rules. And you will follow them, or there will be … consequences."

The words were spoken softly, but the threat was very obvious. But Harry had no intention of breaking rules. He just prayed it would be possible for him to do so.

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oOoOoOoOo

Severus was puzzled. He was confused. He was stymied. And he didn't like being in this state at all. The brat had been here for three days now. And he was … just not behaving like Severus had expected him to. And he had to admit to himself that he was starting to get very worried.

For one, the brat had been unfailingly polite, even when Severus himself had been anything but. He never answered back. Never. He followed the rules Severus had set to the letter. He did whatever he was ordered to, without complaint. When told to do chores, he did them. Perfectly. He also didn't go sticking his nose in places he had been told to keep out of. He followed every command obediently, and whenever possibly he kept out of Severus' way. It felt, in short, disquietingly like having a house-elf around.

And he never spoke unless spoken to. Never asked questions. And he would not look at Severus, unless ordered to. When he did, his eyes and face were … blank. Where was the brat who talked back to him all the time? Who shouted, and got upset when insults came his way? Who complained of unfairness. Who wore his emotions on his sleeve, and had no control over himself? Because he didn't act depressed either. You couldn't tell from his behaviour that his godfather had gotten himself killed just recently. It was like the boy was just … not there.

Where was the arrogant, spoiled brat he had expected? Who was upset at his living situation, and ready to rebel at a moment's notice? Who was moody, and emotional and demanding attention? Because what he got instead was someone entirely _meek_, and quiet, and almost distressingly subservient. Worse, someone who flinched when Severus made any surprise moves towards him that could be interpreted as attacks. And whose eyes would sometimes, before they went carefully blank again, show a glimmer of fear.

What he got, in short, was someone who read in Severus' considerable experience as a possible _abuse_ victim. Long-term, recurrent abuse, in fact. And that surely couldn't be right? Someone was bound to have noticed? Only of course the boy didn't behave like that at school. Didn't show any of the signs there. So why was he different now? What had changed?

Only the fact that this was _not_ school. And the boy obviously considered himself to be at Severus' mercy. And clearly expected nothing good from those into whose 'care' he was entrusted. Add the mystery of the failed wards … and Severus was not happy with his conclusions at all.

He would have to confront the … boy. The boy who was seemingly not a brat at all. He needed to find out why the boy behaved like he did … and what had happened at his relatives to make the wards fail. And if there really was abuse involved, abuse which had been hidden and possibly denied for many years … the fallout would be messy. No, he was not looking forward to that at all.

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oOoOoOoOo

Harry was starting to relax ever so slightly. So far he had been able to follow the rules, and avoid getting in Snape's way. Of course he had also noticed the increasing irritation that the man displayed. Harry blamed it on the fact that Snape couldn't find anything to punish him for, and was frustrated in his desire to lay into Harry. Which was why he was not really letting his guard down. But as long as he gave the other no real reason to punish him, the teacher would hopefully refrain from doing anything too bad. Probably.

So he kept his head down, and tried to be quiet. He got up early, showered, and made sure his room was perfect. Then he went downstairs to make breakfast. He had just set a greased pan onto the stove when he heard footsteps come downstairs. Shortly the door to the kitchen opened and Snape came in.

"Good morning, sir," he said politely. This usually got a non-committal grunt.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter."

Okay, that was bad. Never mind that the man had actually been polite for once. Because that had clearly been a 'we are going to talk' kind of voice. And nothing good ever came of that.

So he concentrated on cooking breakfast. He got the bacon out of the cooled box, and carefully put it into the heated pan. You had to be careful around … fire.

He was very aware of the tense silence filling the room. He could almost feel the man wanting to talk with him. But there was nothing to talk about. It never did any good.

Movement behind him. He tensed. But Snape had just taken a seat at the table. Harry sneaked a look back at him. And wrenched his eyes back immediately as he met the intense black gaze studying him like he was a particularly interesting potion ingredient. He stared down into the pan, gave it a gentle shake so the bacon would not get stuck to the bottom.

"Mr. Potter?"

"Yes, sir?"

"It has come to my attention that I may have been somewhat … mistaken about your person."

Harry froze. What was he meant to say to _that_?

"And your … conduct in the last few days has made me wonder about what really went on at your … relatives."

No. Just … no. There was no way he would ever tell. No.

"Is there anything you would like to tell me, Mr. Potter?"

No. Not ever. Nothing to see here, moving on.

"Will you please look at me, Mr. Potter?"

No. I really don't want to. But you have to do as you are told. Conflict. He froze again.

And then Snape was getting up and moving towards him. Which made him flinch. Badly. He knew he was starting to panic. And when he finally looked up at the man, what he saw in Snape's eyes was … concern. No. This was all wrong. He felt caught like the rabbit before the snake, unable to move, unable to decide what to do. Caught by conflicting signals.

And then he smelt it. In his panic he had forgotten about the bacon. Which was starting to burn. It wasn't quite the same smell, but close enough. Close enough to remind him of … no. But he was already badly out of balance. And Snape was now right in front of him. Harry was caught. And he could not escape the memory any longer. Of fire and white feathers and the smell of burning … no. No. _No_.

He crumbled to the floor, slipping through Snape's grasp as the man tried to catch him.

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oOoOoOoOo

The boy was clearly caught in a flashback of some kind. In a memory that made him go almost catatonic, reliving something that caused a total breakdown.

A couple of quick flicks of his wand had vanished the burning mess, turned off the stove. But the boy was not as easy to fix. So he did the only thing he could think of, which was to sit next to the … child and gather his slight form close. The boy was way to light and fragile, which told another ugly story. He carefully cradled Harry's head and gently forced him to look up at Severus. Fortunately the boy's eyes were wide open. And he made not even a token attempt to keep Severus from seeing into his memories.

A few seconds later he wished he had not seen them. And yet … he could not have turned away, either. Not from the horrifying vision of _burning_. Burnt, crisped black remains of what had once been beautiful white feathers. The all pervading stink of burnt flesh, which was what had surely triggered this breakdown. And the boy, held back by a cruel grip on his wrists, his arms all but wrenched out of the sockets, as he was forced to watch them burn his owl. While they laughed at him, mocking him for his innocent love.

The sheer _grief_ filling the boy would have driven Severus to his knees, had he been standing. This was what had finally broken the wards. The cruel, wanton destruction of something so innocent, so pure. And done in order to break the boy, to punish him for nothing that was his fault. And yet it was grief filling the boy, not rage. Loss, not the desire for revenge. And hopelessness, because there was nothing that could bring his beloved familiar back.

Nothing that could bring back any of the dead. Who had all left him. Been taken. Because of him. Behind the grief came the _guilt_. The black, corrosive guilt that was eating the boy alive. This child, who had only ever gotten blamed for everything that had happened to him. Who was the victim that had been made to feel guilty for the misdeeds of the real perpetrators. Who blamed himself for the misfortune of others.

Severus could almost not believe how very wrong he had been about the boy. But who would have expected prolonged abuse behind the mask of the perfect Gryffindor? And he had not really wanted to see it, in any case. But now, confronted with the grief, and the guilt, and the overwhelming evidence of what this poor child had to endure all his life … how could he possibly turn away?

And he had thought the boy hopeless at Occlumency. Oh, the irony of it. When he had managed to only ever let Severus see the outer shell. The real Harry, and his experiences, had been hidden inside. The boy had lived behind a perfect mask. Gave nothing away. Now, in his state of shock, he was no longer able to hide those memories. And they were bad. As bad as anything Severus had endured in his own childhood, and worse in many ways.

Because there had been no-one to redeem and soften the abuse through love. Severus had a mother, and later his friend Lily. Harry had no-one, not until he came to Hogwarts. It was not surprising he defended anyone who offered him any kindness. The boy had not only been starved of food, but also of affection. The real miracle was that he had not yet given up, and turned to destruction.

And he was Lily's child, whom he had sworn to protect. At which he had failed, oh how he had failed. They had all failed him. And the grief, the guilt the boy felt was now matched by the helpless feeling of Severus himself.

Because he had no idea how to repair this child. Nothing could undo what had happened to him. But he could not be left to deal with it on his own. Yet the child had virtually no-one left. His godfather was dead, and now he had even lost his familiar. Right now, the only one who could even attempt to help him … was Severus himself. Who felt woefully inadequate to the task. But there was no-one else.

Only Severus. So he would do what he could. And as he held the fragile boy close, he could only pray it would be enough.

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oOoOoOoOo


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All characters and recognizable story elements belong to J. K. Rowling.

AN: I originally intended for this to be just a short one-shot. But since people actually liked it, and many were asking for a continuation, _and_ my brain actually obliged by coming up with something that I hope fits … here is another chapter. Beware, though, that this story will continue being angsty, as well as somewhat odd at times. And possibly Snape is going to turn out too Hufflepuffish, what with all the therapeutic hugging. Then again, maybe he just has a thing for broken little baby-birds. In any case, this story will always be at a 'completed' stage, though I plan to add some more chapters in the future.

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oOoOoOoOo

Severus was still sitting on the floor, cradling Harry to him, when the boy finally stirred. He had been stroking the youngster's soft, impossible hair, mumbling vague nonsense, but his mind was really miles away.

Time to return to the here and now, though, because the boy was aware again. And starting to panic as he found himself held. So Severus gently patted his back and imagined quite strongly that he was holding an injured baby-bird. It seemed to work, or at least Harry stopped struggling after a moment.

"Sir?" the voice was breathy. Bewildered. And with an edge to it that spoke of panic not being far behind.

"Shush," he said calmly to his baby-bird.

"What a good little house-elf," he added, though he could not have explained _why_ he said that.

It appeared to have been the right thing, however, since the boy's head came up indignantly and he started squirming in Severus' hold again.

"Ah, so you have some fight left in you after all," he commented offhandedly, not letting go in the slightest. "Good."

That seemed to floor the boy. At least he froze, and opened his eyes wide at Severus, looking shocked.

"Good?!"

"Good. Excellent. Promising. Something which offers hope we can undo what they did to you," he said, trying to sound clipped and precise, but not threatening.

Never threatening. He did not want to frighten his little baby-bird with the broken wings. Or broken heart.

On the whole, wings would be the easier to heal of the two.

"I believe, little bird, that it is time for some new rules around here," he added.

He could feel the boy tense up even more. And his face turned apprehensive.

"Rules like: 'I shall not blame myself for the sins of others'. Or: 'Just because I could do nothing to prevent it, does not make it my fault'," he said, trying to sound quite matter-of-fact.

The boy continued to stare at him, still frozen in the circle of Severus' arms. But then something seemed to give in him, and he slumped forward and helplessly buried his face into the crook of Severus' neck.

"I know," he said, rubbing the boy's back a bit awkwardly, but refusing to react otherwise. Not when the child had finally started to cry. Softly, definitely trying to hide or even suppress it. But crying, nevertheless. And some of that grief desperately needed out. Not that it was likely to come out all at once, but it was a start. A small first step.

And promising, that the boy would actually cry on Severus' shoulder. Though likely he was just too overwhelmed to care at the moment, or not even really aware of it. But if he could not get the little bird to trust him, there would be no chance at all to fix him. So he let the boy cry, and started rocking him lightly.

His little bird.

Lily's last legacy to him.

And James Potter would surely be turning in his grave at the thought that his son was crying on Severus' shoulder.

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oOoOoOoOo

When Harry became conscious of himself and his surroundings again, the first thing he noticed was that someone was holding him. And not merely holding him, but cradling him gently as if he was a precious, fragile thing. Whoever was holding him was also slowly rocking him, and murmuring soft nonsense. At least Harry could make no sense of the words. Until he was actually addressed.

"Unfortunately … you may be comfortable like this, but my knees are getting too old for sitting on the floor," Snape told him calmly, with a little wince.

Snape. Memory came flooding back, bringing Panic and Embarrassment along for an impromptu threesome. _Snape_. He had broken down right in front of his teacher. Who was holding him. Talking to him gently. Not punishing him. Not shouting at him. Not even calling him names. And Bewilderment was knocking on the door to ask the threesome if they needed a fourth. He hardly dared to look at the man. Who had let Harry cry on his shoulder. He had never felt so mortified. Or so confused.

But remaining frozen was apparently not an option, as Snape gave him a gentle shake.

"Up we get, little bird," the man said encouragingly, getting to his feet with another wince and carefully dragging Harry up with him. He seemed almost unable to stand on his own, and leaned drunkenly against his teacher. Embarrassment was currently dancing the tango with Bewilderment.

"Why are you calling me that?" he asked, utter confusion overriding the impulse to keep his mouth shut.

"Would you rather continue being 'Potter'?" he was asked, with a raised eyebrow. Snape seemed mildly amused at Harry's question.

"No! But … stop being so … confusing!"

"Hmm. I fear confusion is the nature of transition."

Harry just stared at him in Bewilderment. Which was trying out tap-dancing.

Snape sighed, and gave him a tentative smile. Bewilderment was _good_ at tap-dancing.

"Transition. A time of change. Because as a consequence of me changing my view of you, you will hopefully end up changing your perception of me as well."

"Was that meant to make me less confused?" Harry asked, somewhat emboldened by the fact Snape continued to be … reasonable. If impossible to understand.

The teacher seemed to contemplate this. And sighed again, a bit ruefully.

"Probably not. I should not tax your vocabulary at a time like this," he allowed. Still sounding almost amused. "Try not to worry about it. Everything will eventually make sense," he continued, with an unaccustomed gentle inflection, which went unexpectedly well with Snape's smooth, silky voice.

Apparently, he was supposed to be comforted by that. Then again, he doubted Snape had any real practise with being comforting. But he was obviously _trying_. Harry gave up on understanding it. Because Snape was also helping him move into the sitting room, and carefully arranging Harry on the couch. A pillow was put under his head. A blanket was tucked in around him. And a gentle hand smoothed the hair from Harry's forehead, and rested there, shielding his eyes. He suddenly felt very, very tired. So very exhausted and tired. The idea of sleep, and not having to worry about anything, at least for a little while … was very tempting.

Maybe things would really make more sense … later.

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oOoOoOoOo

Low voices from the next room woke Harry from his sleep of exhaustion. It was an effort to make out what they were saying, but old habits of eavesdropping came to the fore. Sometimes listening at doors had given him the only information he had. And not being alert to what the Dursleys thought he'd done wrong this time could have been disastrous. So he listened ...

"... not to the Weasleys. It will do him no good to be coddled ..." the familiar voice sneered, before it faded again, too low for Harry to make out.

"... he needs comforting, after all he has endured? A mother figure like Molly would ..." that sounded like the headmaster.

"... balderdash! He was left to brood enough, he needs to learn the reality of his situation …"

"... having his friends around, surely, would be better? The boy must still be grieving ..."

"... the boy needs a firm hand, if there is to be any chance of correcting his worst misbehaviours ..."

"... very well. He shall stay with you then for the time being. But if things get out of hand ..."

"... what he really needs is to have some sense knocked into him. Honestly, the notions the boy has …."

"... I said he will stay with you. Honestly, Severus, first you don't want him there, and then you insist he remain with you ..."

"... for his own good. Someone has to take proper care of him. So he finally understands ..."

"... if you insist. I will leave him in your capable hands then. Now have you heard anything regarding …"

The voices continued, but Harry gave up trying to listen as they had clearly finished with him. His eyes closed in resignation. And his hands clenched on the blanket that Snape had tucked in so carefully around him earlier. With such care.

He should have known better than to trust the enemy. It had only been an act to soften him up, after all. Snape just hadn't been able to get at him ... the true him … before. So the strange act of concern and kindness, after the teacher had discovered Harry's secret, was only a ploy to get him to open up further. The betrayal hurt. But it would not matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing at all.

No matter that there was no-one who cared about him in the world. It had always been so since the death of his parents, and nothing would ever change it. The ache he felt didn't matter. There was no room for despair.

Only … nothing.

oOoOoOoOo

Severus came back into the room a few minutes later, mentally still mulling over the conversation he just had with the headmaster. And froze at seeing that blank look on Harry's face again. Blank, but edged with both resentment and resignation.

He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed in exasperation.

"Tell me you did not wake up right in time to hear what I said to the headmaster? And probably misunderstood it completely?" he asked.

Harry just stared at him. Severus sighed again, this time in frustration. This was going to take time, and would probably be a see-saw of trust and distrust. The boy was bound to take everything the worst way, and trust would be hard-won. And all too easily lost again in a heartbeat. He would have to be very careful what he said, both directly to the boy and where he might be overheard.

And at the moment the trust seemed lost again. So he sat down next to the child on the couch, and with appalling ease shifted the slight weight of the youngster so that Harry ended up in his lap, his head against Severus' chest. The boy struggled against the hold, and his breathing sped up. Clearly he was on the edge of another panic attack.

"Hush, little bird, hush," he said, and simply held on against the weak struggles Harry was capable of.

"Why do you pretend to care?" the boy whispered, and the pain in his voice sliced through Severus' heart like a freshly sharpened knife.

"Why should I _pretend_ to care?" he replied softly, still refusing to let go of his little bird. "Do you think I am someone who would do that?"

"You might," the boy sounded doubtful, but he stopped squirming. Not that the lifeless way he slumped in Severus' lap was much better.

"Why?"

"So I'd tell you … things," the boy muttered resentfully, so quietly Severus had to strain to make out his words.

"And are there … things … worth telling then, little bird? Things important enough that I would resort to _pretending_ to care for you just to learn them?"

This was met with silence. But it felt like the boy was finally relaxing a bit. Severus changed his hold on him to free one hand, which resumed stroking the boy's messy black hair. Clearly this was going to take time. And more patience than he really had, but he owed it to the child. To his broken little bird.

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oOoOoOoOo

Harry felt undone again, and totally confused. Could you really lie through holding someone? Because the way Snape was cradling him was once more as if Harry was something fragile and precious. Something that would break if you even so much as _looked_ at it the wrong way. And the _voice_. Could you really put that much gentleness into a voice if you didn't mean it? It was the voice of someone talking with a small, wounded animal, that they didn't want to startle or frighten.

He wanted to trust the tone of voice. But how could he, when that same voice had earlier snarled words which condemned Harry's behaviour? Yet Snape's argument was … compelling. The man was hardly the kind who would pretend to care just to learn about something that was rather insignificant after all … unless he _actually_ cared to learn more about Harry. It was so confusing. The man's behaviour was contradiction in itself. How could he attempt to trust someone who made so little sense?

And why did he even _want_ to trust?

But then the man gathered Harry closer, and rested his chin on Harry's head, so he was tucked into Snape's neck. He heard the other's voice with strange rumbling undertones.

"Harry?"

He refused to reply.

"I was talking to the headmaster. He intended to send you on to the Weasleys. Which I honestly do not think you would want right now? And so I told him I wished for you to stay."

"Yeah, to 'correct' my behaviour."

He couldn't help himself, the words slipped out, full of accusation and resentment. But all that happened in response was that Snape's arms seemed to hold him impossibly even closer. He felt the older man sigh, heard a few swear words in some foreign tongue. He couldn't understand them, but the tone was unmistakable.

When the teacher spoke to him again, the voice was once more gentle, but also resigned. "You really attract the worst possible luck, don't you?"

It was spoken as if Snape couldn't quite believe it himself.

"All right. Since I doubt reassurances will work at this point … I guess I had better tell you what I consider your worst 'misbehaviour'," and at this point the voice broke from the gentleness to reproduce the sneer Harry had heard earlier.

Snape shifted Harry's weight around without apparent effort so that he was held in front of the man by his shoulders. Which forced him to meet the dark, intense gaze directed at him. He wanted to look away. Close his eyes. But he was once again caught by the _concern_ he found in those eyes.

"And the worst one clearly is that you keep taking the blame for things you did not do. That were not your fault. That you feel guilty for what you should not ever feel guilty for."

The teacher's dark eyes were boring into Harry as he said that. And he could only stare back. Utterly thrown by that unexpected statement.

"But ..."

The dark eyes closed, releasing Harry for a moment.

"You. Are. Not. Guilty."

Each word was underlined by a gentle shake to his shoulders.

"Those deplorable relatives of yours," and the words were spoken like a curse. "Installed in you the sense that _everything_ was your fault."

"But it was. It always is."

"And it was not, is not and will never be! It was them who were guilty. For mistreating you. Beating you. Starving you. _Them_! Not you! You were the victim. They are to blame! Not you! Never you!"

Harry continued to stare helplessly at his teacher, who was clearly very upset. But not upset at him. Upset _for_ him. It was … a novel experience.

"Just as I am to blame for insulting you. And humiliating you. And hurting you, when you did not deserve it! I though I was merely taking your arrogance down a notch," the shame in Snape's voice was painful to hear. "Little did I know I was instead treading a downed victim further into the dirt."

The sorrow and the guilt, the shame and the self-recrimination in the teacher's voice cut worse at Harry than all the insults ever had. It made his eyes sting, so he closed them. His fists clenched hard around the blanket he was still clutching, and he couldn't stop himself from shivering.

"Merlin, you are not to blame for _my_ misdeeds," the voice exclaimed in horror. And Snape once again pulled him close and simply held Harry.

He clung to it. To that tone of voice. To that embrace. He wanted to believe. He badly wanted to. And he wanted to be held like this, like he was something precious. Something worthwhile.

But it would only hurt even more, when he was let fall later. It was just a way to soften him up, so he'd let down his guard. He needed his walls back. So he could lock things down again. But his walls had broken earlier under the onslaught of his grief. For Hedwig. He shied away from the thought. It was all so painful. So raw. So … burnt.

And being held as he was, made him feel so fragile. So vulnerable. So cherished. He wanted this more than he had ever wanted anything.

Wanted to believe. To trust. To hope.

Maybe it would be all right. Possibly this time, someone would help him. Not let him fall. Perhaps it wasn't just a lie. Maybe he could dare to hope.

Maybe.

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oOoOoOoOo


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: All characters and recognizable story elements belong to J. K. Rowling.

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oOoOoOoOo

"Why did you really want me to stay here, and not go to the Weasleys?"

"Can you honestly say that if you went there, you would deal with any of this?"

"Ehm."

No, he honestly couldn't.

"You would bury it, and put up walls again. I know from my own experience that is a horribly bad idea. So I will not let you."

"You will not let me," Harry echoed slowly.

"No. I will not let you do that. Because it will eat at you until nothing is left. And because you do not deserve to become like me," Snape said, sounding quite fierce.

"Oh. But … I'm just a burden. You can't really want me here. At least they do … or don't they?"

What if the Weasleys didn't want him either? They had so many of their own already, and he was such a mess. Why should they bother with him?

"Actually Mrs. Weasley was apparently _quite_ insistent that you should come. But I am even more insistent than her that you should stay. Because you are _not_ a burden, and you need to learn this."

"I … " he broke off, searching Snape's face for signs of insincerity. "I'm not?"

"No. Foolish maybe. Annoying and exasperating even, quite frequently. Certainly stubborn. Just like every other child I have ever met. But you are _not a burden_. And I will get that insecurity and those feelings of worthlessness and guilt out of you if it is the last thing I do, little bird."

It was hard to argue against that. Especially when Snape sounded so unaccustomedly fierce and protective. Like Harry really mattered. Like he was really a little bird that had fallen out of the nest and needed to be rescued. The picture of Snape as a bird, black feathers all flustered up as he prepared to defend a tiny fledgling, suddenly came to him. It almost made him laugh, it seemed to incongruous. Though the man certainly had the beak to match. And he had the fierce look down perfectly, too.

"I will make you a promise. If at any point you really feel you cannot continue here, I will take you to the Weasleys myself. But you need to deal with this. And I want to help you, little bird. Let me help you."

The last sounded almost pleading. He looked at the teacher helplessly. Because it sounded too good to be true. That someone should want to help him. And he didn't know if he could trust the man.

But he was offering to help. He might even be able to do what he offered. And really, could it get any worse? Because Snape already knew the worst, and his reaction had been … to turn protective. Instead of laughing at Harry for his weakness, he seemed to get angry at those who had harmed him.

So what did he really have to lose at this point?

He might get disappointed, if the teacher turned out to be lying after all. But he was quite used to disappointment, wasn't he?

He might be punished, but he was used to that, too. And hopefully Dumbledore would step in before it got too bad.

He might have his trust betrayed, but that was hardly new either. Just don't get your hopes up too much.

"All right. I'll stay."

"And you will let me help you?"

"... yes."

It cost nothing to try, after all.

.

oOoOoOoOo

Snape sighed in frustration. "I do not know how to get through to you, little bird. Every time I think I am getting somewhere, I run into another wall." The look he gave his charge was dejected. Frustrated.

Until it turned pensive.

"Hmm. Maybe … the key is repetition. Yes. Indeed. That may work."

His gaze sharpened as he studied Harry intently. Harry didn't like that look. It made him feel apprehensive. Because some of the ideas Snape came up with were … unorthodox. It had been very much up and down the last few days. Though Snape was certainly trying his best. It wasn't his fault Harry was so … distrustful. Skittish. And constantly running into triggers, now that he couldn't take refuge in the blankness anymore. But the teacher wouldn't let him do that. Which was good in a way, because it showed he really wanted to help Harry.

It was also really frustrating at the same time. For both of them.

Because he wasn't used to opening up. Or talking about things. Because he could never talk about any of the wrongs in his life, unless he wanted to end up with even worse punishment. He realised now this was another response the Dursleys had drilled into him. But as much as he struggled, he couldn't seem to get over it. And he still didn't trust the teacher, though his resistance on that point was slowly getting worn down by the man's sheer persistence.

"So. I think you shall write some lines for me. That way you will repeat …" Snape broke off at seeing Harry blanch and hide his hands reflexively. "Whatever is wrong now, little bird?"

"Not lines, please," he begged, backing off until he hit the wall. "Anything, but not lines!"

"Don't you dare start hyperventilating again!" Snape exclaimed, moving to Harry's side with a few swift steps and crouching down next to him. The teacher pulled Harry into his arms and held him close. "Breathe," he commanded. "Just breathe with me."

He closed his eyes and lost himself in breathing, and being held, and not thinking about … what he wasn't thinking about. He was here and now, and not in a past where he had to write lines with … what he wasn't thinking about. In a way it was a kind of Occlumency.

Snape had started talking about that with him, too. Unfortunately, it was another area full of triggers. But he was all right with learning simple exercises in controlling himself and blocking out … what he didn't want to think about. To instead concentrate on the here and now, and on such basic things like breathing, and calming his heartbeat.

It took a while, but eventually he was calm again. And then Snape gently lifted up Harry's chin so he was forced to look the teacher in the eyes.

"And now, little bird," the man said sternly. "You will tell me why you turned white as a sheet at the mere thought of writing lines?"

He couldn't help himself, his eyes automatically went to his hand. When Snape's eyes followed his, he heard the teacher exclaim in shock. He was not surprised to have his hand grabbed gently but firmly, and to feel a finger trace the scared line of writing on the back of his hand.

"How?"

"Umbridge," he finally croaked through the constriction in his throat.

"Breathe. Calm down," Snape ordered him again, keeping a tight hold on Harry's hand. He nodded, leaning his head against the teacher's shoulder. It probably said a lot that he now dared do this without fear of having it withdrawn or worse. But he'd been hugged and held often enough in the last few days that he'd even stopped freezing up when it happened.

"So she had you write lines … in a way which caused scaring … " Snape's voice trailed off. "Surely she wouldn't have dared to ..." he heard the man sigh. "Of course she would have. Was there _nothing_ that toadying harpy stopped at? However ..."

"Yes?"

"Do you want to let her win?"

Of course he didn't. He shook his head against Snape's shoulder.

"Then you need to overcome this."

No. Not this. Do not ask this of me.

"You know I'm right, little bird."

Maybe. But …

"Will you do it for me?"

No. Yes. Maybe.

"Please, little bird?"

He nodded unwillingly.

If only Snape hadn't discovered his one big weakness …

.

oOoOoOoOo

"This will be very different from her detentions. Look, ink. Genuine black ink. And this is your own quill, though I think we'd better replace those tattered things," Snape said, holding Harry's quills up for inspection. "No wonder you write so messily, will you look at these tips? Has no-one ever taught you how to cut them properly?"

He looked at Harry, and his expression turned apologetic.

"Sorry, I guess nobody has?"

Harry nodded dejectedly.

"Nor how to write properly with them, I suppose. We will have to rectify that, too. Anyway … as I said, this will be different. And for starters, I am only going to tell you the beginning of the sentence I want you to write."

"Only the start? What do you want me to write then?" Harry felt confused. This sounded like an impossible exercise. Something set up for him to fail at.

"Whatever comes to your mind which feels right to complete it."

"Oh."

"You can do as many different ones as you want. The purpose of this exercise is not to punish you, little bird. Not at all. It is to make you _think_. And to get some things through that thick skull of yours."

"Right."

"And the line starts with: 'Umbridge is a …'

"What? But ..."

"You may call her anything you like. Anything at all, I do not care if it is nasty or impolite. Because that toad deserves whatever you can come up with," Snape said, sounding rather angry.

"Okay ..."

The teacher sighed, losing the anger, and looked down at Harry, who was sitting forlornly at the table, clutching his ratty quill. Then he abruptly spun around and left the room. Harry stared after him, wondering what he'd done wrong now. But when Snape returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray, the teacher didn't say anything. He just put a cup of steaming hot chocolate in front of Harry. And placed a plate of cookies at his elbow. He also lighted a candle which gave off a soft smell of vanilla and cinnamon.

Harry watched all that with big eyes. Snape then sat down across from him, opened a potions journal and met Harry's bewildered gaze calmly.

"Write. You have however long it takes. But … write. Please."

He simply had no defence against the please. Or the obvious effort the man had gone to in order to make Harry more comfortable. And so he took a sip from the hot chocolate, dipped his quill into the ink, and started writing.

.

oOoOoOoOo

_'Umbridge is a … bitch_.'

Well, it rhymed. It was also very impolite, but she _was_ a bitch. A horrible bitch in a pink dress. With horrible pictures of kittens. Poor little kittens. And Snape had given him permission to call her anything he wanted. So there.

_'Umbridge is a … control-freak_.'

Wanting to control everything about their lives. Forbidding everything good, and fun, and trying to squeeze the spirit out of them.

_'Umbridge is a … liar_.'

Because she had _known_ Voldemort was back. And yet she had denied it. So it had been her who lied, not him.

_'Umbridge is a … hypocrite_.'

Yes, that was the right word. The bitch had known all along, and still called him a liar when he'd said so.

_'Umbridge is a … waste of space_.'

They'd always called _him_ that. But that horrible excuse for a human being deserved those words much more than him.

_'Umbridge is a … horrible excuse for a human being_.'

Yes. She was. She really was. Not him. Her.

_'Umbridge is an … evil tyrant_.'

Evil could take many forms. Evil could dress up in pink, too. In fact, that probably made it more evil. And if she wasn't a tyrant, then who was?

_'Umbridge is a … monster_.'

Because she was. Calling others like the Centaurs subhuman, but look at her actions. _She_ was the real monster.

_'Umbridge is a … torturer_.'

Give it a name, what she had done. She had tortured him. Him and many others.

_'Umbridge is a … toady_.'

Riding on the power and the shirt-tails of others. Stealing power where she could. By herself, if no-one gave her any, she was nothing.

_'Umbridge is a … thief_.'

Because she stole freedom. And took away rights. You could steal immaterial things, too. In fact, that was often worse. She had stolen so very much from him. It was high time he took it back.

.

oOoOoOoOo

And writing those disrespectful lines was helping him do so.

It was surprisingly easy to find words that fit her. And liberating. It was a form of venting. Blowing off the pressure he'd been under so long, trying to stand up to her and failing, failing so horribly. He'd endured silently, but that was not the same as successfully standing up to her, was it? It would have been so much better to actually _do something_ against her, instead of suffering in silence. He'd thought he was keeping her from winning when he did his lines without protest and in silence, but really, what had that proven? What had it achieved?

Nothing. It had simply continued. So he had not given in. Great. But it hadn't changed anything. Had not fixed a single thing. She simply got worse, and had every intention to continue until something broke. Well, something had broken. And it had cost him dearly.

He also hadn't been her only victim. In fact, his suffering in silence might actually have been harmful in that context. Because it inspired others to do the same. Or at least if he had spoken out, incited a revolt, others would probably have followed. So not doing anything had definitely been the wrong thing to do. Because others _did_ follow his example. So he was kind of guilty for them taking her abuse without protest, too.

He winced. He could just imagine what Snape would have to say if he dared voice _that_ thought. And the teacher was right.

Because they could have protested, too. He hadn't forced anyone to follow his example. If they even had. They might have been too afraid, or too cowardly. No, it wasn't really his fault. Or at least only in part. A pretty small part, actually.

He was responsible for failing to do something against her. But not for what she had done in the first place, nor for the failure of others to stand up to her by themselves.

Yes, it would have been much better if he had sought to stop her. He should have rebelled. It could hardly have been worse than what happened anyway.

There were so many ways he could have done _something_. He could have written to the Prophet anonymously. Colin could have taken pictures of his hand as evidence. He could have gone to Madame Pomfrey. He could have marched right into a teacher's conference and shown them the proof of her abuse. He could have asked Susan Bones for help, with her aunt who was the head of the DMLE. He could have told Dumbledore when it all began, before she sank her pink claws too deeply into Hogwarts.

It might even have kept the disaster at the Ministry from happening. Which was a thought he carefully shoved away before he started dwelling on _that_. Snape didn't like it when he wallowed in guilt. Even less when he had another breakdown because of it. And he was beginning to not want to disappoint his teacher.

So. There was a lot he could have done. Instead of just taking her abuse. Her torture. Give it the proper name, which probably was part of the lesson Snape intended to teach him with this.

But he was too used to punishment. To taking it in silence. To enduring. To not breaking, though that never stopped it.

And since his punishments had rarely, if ever, been just or fair … he was used to that, too. And not accustomed to stand up for himself and say: 'No. No more!'

He would defend others … but the impulse to defend himself had been drilled out of him from early on. And sacrificing himself for others wasn't really a good answer anyway. Because it usually didn't stop the bad people.

But to change this … acceptance of unfair punishments, and his habit of thinking himself guilty, he needed to overcome his … conditioning. Another word he hated. A word which made him uncomfortable, because he didn't want to think of himself in those terms. Like neglect. Abuse. Victim.

The answer was like with medicine. Ultimately, it didn't do much good to merely get rid of the symptoms. You had to remove the cause. Which in his case lay somewhere in his murky past with the Dursleys. He had no desire to stir that up. However, it seemed Snape was all too right in insisting that he had to, if he wanted to win over his lifelong … conditioning.

He sighed, and got back to thinking up creative ways to describe the pink horror that was Umbridge, the toady bitch. Or bitchy toad.

.

oOoOoOoOo

"Do you think you have it out of your system now?"

Harry nodded shakily. He did feel better. A lot better, in fact. The quill was no longer a horrible means of punishment, but instead something for him to use to express his opinions. To free himself. Even though it was a rather tattered instrument of liberation.

"Then for your next exercise, I want you to write: 'I am not a freak. I am not worthless. I am …"

He shifted uncomfortably on the chair. This one would be even harder. But … he wasn't a freak. He _wasn't_. But …

"What do you mean 'I am …'," he asked, already dreading the answer.

"That's where I want you to add something positive about yourself," Snape said, in a tone obviously meant to be encouraging.

"Something … positive ..."

"Yes. You really need to start seeing yourself in a positive light, little bird," Snape explained gently, and put his hands to cover Harry's, which were clutching the quill hard enough to crush the feather. Feathers. No. Not going there.

Not. Going. There.

"Harry? Little bird?"

He soaked up the concern in Snape's voice. Clung to it like a life-line. But he still couldn't speak for long moments.

"Feather," he finally whispered. "Hedwig," he added, in case Snape had not gotten his meaning, and closed his eyes. He couldn't stop the tears though, especially when the teacher got up and put his arms around Harry's shoulders. That really set the tears free, rolling down his cheeks and dripping on the parchment in front of him.

He didn't want to cry. The Dursleys had always disapproved of his tears … which usually earned him more punishments. So he'd learned not to. But Snape didn't tell him to stop. He simply held Harry, until his tears eventually ran out by themselves.

"I fear you will need a fresh sheet of parchment," the teacher commented after a while and took the now rather soggy one from underneath his hands. "And don't you dare regret your tears. Or be ashamed of them. Or doesn't she deserve every one of them?"

Put that way … Hedwig surely deserved a lot more than just his tears. She'd deserved to live, most of all. She'd certainly not deserved what his horrible relatives did to her. But she was worth his tears, and his grief, and he owned her to remember how beautiful and faithful she had been. How clever and wise. How amazing his first friend had been, who'd shared so many of his bad hours. And the tears were falling again, but this time he didn't try to stop them. Or feel ashamed for them.

Because she was worth them. Every single one.

.

oOoOoOoOo

AN: Sorry if this ends on a rather soggy note, but it was a good stopping point. I promise there shall be more to come, though. I found it quite hard to write something that lives up to the start of the story. Until it kind of wrote itself today. I was actually meaning to do some proof-reading for another story instead. Anyway, I hope I did not disappoint. And many, many thanks for all those lovely reviews. I love you all!

oOoOoOoOo


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